Handjob Tyrants Of Hollywood

She will not be perfect.
Her skin will fall and flop.
She talks and talks
and I of course make the mistake
of judging her value by
the changing of her physicality
while granting myself privileges
of mind, lintellect, and earnings.
My breath stales to phlegm
and stinks its sad mature mucosal
isolation of men.
I become known as

the handjob tyrant
and look towards other women,
but as I grow old and my hardons
no longer work
do I have the courage to love her
as she turns into something
beyond time,
eternal, beyond stupid words?
Something my mother told me
as a toddler,

listen to that feeling inside your head
and maybe I’ll still be afraid of.
This poem was not written for the
fashionable young people or the
vainfully rich and egotists
rushing in and out of the stores and
clinics of the City.
This poem was written for the leaves,
grass, and particles
still vassals to the wind,
not the human negrotude
put in place by the ancient Court
of Ine, ingrained in your movies and
television.

When I Don’t Quite Make It

I come close to the set where
the television actors are,
but I don’t quite make it.
There’s a sign on the door that says
“SET”,
so I do not enter.
I’d like to know what’s inside.
Massages?
Clean sandwiches?
Cheque books?
Townhomes?
Convertibles?

Somewhere beige-walled foyers are,
with clean terracotta tiles,
the sun shines in on a brilliant perfect
Southern California morning,
but I do not make it.
I’m not there.
Their children are, not mine.
I breathe in with blood in my lungs.
Then I cough and hack something up.
My children are passing glances at doors
I saw Larry Hagman go bye-bye behind.

Dialogo For The Mythmade Magic

What’s the difference between New York and LA?

In New York
they’re well-postured people.

Tightly postured, if you will.
Excellently postured, I might say.

Very very well-postured.

In LA
they’re sloppy posturers.
They’ll posture at anything.

At cartoons, cars, stars, pornos, bars, fast food.

To quote a person I once met who represented
both so well,

“Do you know what I mean?
I mean like the experience.
You gotta really have it.
You know what I mean? Yeah, you get it. You do.
You know what I mean. Yeah, you do.”

Quote, unquote.

No. I don’t. I don’t get it.
I think you’re all full of shit,
living in some deluded 20th Century archetype mythland,
giving yourselves pats on your imaginary bigheaded
mythbacks.

And I hate to be the bearer of bad news,
but this is the 21st Century,
where the people have stopped operating via mythmade
ego-wanton magic.

Nice Dresses

These blondes are pretty cute on TV.
They place them in nice dresses.
Nice dresses.
They follow their contours.
You know what it’s like
to be placed in nice dresses
and have your contours followed.
It’s a delicate world of vanity we build.
It helps us in our head.
It’s delicate and tender the touches
in our heart.
All of them are. All of them are.
We build. We build.

You, I and God know
this is what those nice dresses do.
Let’s place more of the blondes and
brunettes like you
in them.
Go down to church, new shopping malls,
svelte automobiles.
Our thinking will be good for teenagers,
millionaires and tycoons.
Our thinking will be good.

Molochs of masculinity.

Messages from New York City.

Silk blouses across breasts.
Steak dinners times ten.